Castles Don't Write Mysteries

A man with a reflective turn of mind, walking through an exhibition of this sort, will not be oppressed, I take it, by his own or other people's hilarity--Thackeray, location 11

I never really prefaced children, which any regular viewers I have know is both a lie and a truth. Once I wasn't exiting university with a husband of choice, I never prefaced the risks of pregnancy, and aborted the idea of motherhood for a career, and for writing. Little patience with little humans; it is not really a regret, as my maternal drives are more suited to terrorizing poachers and other instances of animal cruelty which is unintentionally caused by hoarders (some of those are female) and aggressive human males. People who butcher silverbacks should be put to death. Fossey's murdered spirit offers zealous support, sotto voce. People who kill kitties, ah; people who kill kitties are zoned off, breed apart, not much of a surprise that my Russian viewers have vanished. 

Mother Russia still believes in empire, in an economy that hunts and gathers, to channel George Will. Did the lengthy pause for coffee prove disruptive to my train of thought? Families aren't a beneficial panacea when other system modalities fail. I do not think even Ed, my lone account follower, realizes that I badgered my mother with wroth tantrums to get me the fuck out of Riverside Presbyterian from my earliest days when the company shuttled me over from the Temple campus environs. Marie attempts to pacify me with the belief that her brother my padre, will provide deliverance. This fable from my earliest days of my father's responsibilities does more detriment to my health than not. My father is nearly 80. Before my mother left him he was almost a millionaire. The IRS decided to destroy him fifteen years ago. Deference only partially weighs in on my speak no evil stance. I do not know what he did or how he did it when it comes to tax code violations.

The state of Pennsylvania considers me a violation simply for being alive at this point. Trudy and I are supposed to discuss my transfer request. I do not want to discuss it. Presby has gnawed on my soul, in conjunction with Septa and my disability center, since I was 23 years old. I do not know where you are in your life, but think about that. A 23 year old university graduate spit out like gristle in a 20 block radius of a city founded by Quakers. Philadelphia might as well be run by Joseph Stalin.

Slavic Escarpment

"Look at him. He's just pissing himself to tell us about the fake Aryan Cosmetics conspiracy!" --Vincent D'onofrio

The narrative behind the rise of Catherine the Great is fascinating in its imposition. A fairly low key Prussian enlightenment era aristocrat marries well, excels in the game of court intrigues, has her husband murdered, or the truth around his death successfully repressed, and Voila, long live Czarina, the great Russian ruler who isn't Russian. I wrote a poem about her after extensive research. It is a poem in need of a tuning, but one of the last I showed to Robert before Trudy Richardson's hire at Riverside nearly annihilated my existence. If you think I am being unfair to the evasive minority who will tap dance any way but loose in order to avoid a civil rights lawsuit against her parent company, look at what we do to the damned; it is in this sense that I pity young Tsarnaev, regardless of his motives. David Brooks gives me cover here for incredulity at the sheer magnitude of the manhunt that took place in Boston. A kid is a kid, despite the marathon deaths, the loss of the campus security guard. Slavic conventions baffle me, but Alexandra published my poems that used those conceits to signify desolation, my Grecian editor who had to fucking die of breast cancer despite the fact that prim and proper lesbian was the best promoter I had. Here too, back in the day, initially, when I heard Alexandra's voice for the first time, I grew excited. "New literary friend!" This assertion ran in my mind until I met her in person. Flag went up and chilled any sentiment I had about confidential intimacy when she presented herself. The able bodied world can't even allow me confidantes in my own fucking field, and more still, she did not functionally edit me. This is what I asked of her when she was dying, and I could not get the manuscript out to her in time, and so she died on me also, a pissant of a hanging chad.

Doubtlessly, I stay with WaPo as a reader because of its national gridiron mentality, but let me respond to Joel Achenbach's points by objecting to his use of grid iron simplicity. I am as perplexed as any of you about the motives of the brothers, but the tactics of the terrorist is not about winning, it is about resort.

I am hesitant to press on with this in any thorough fashion in the moment given the national tempo and corporate suppression,  which I find absolutely ludicrous, but I am always mindful that I am letting my id, scars, analytics, dangle under the largesse of a powerful corporate tolerance.